


this universe

by timefighter



Series: TILL DEATH — dream smp [11]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Brotherly Love, Family Fluff, Fluff, Gen, Human TommyInnit, Hybrid Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Love Languages, Middle Sibling Wilbur Soot, Older Sibling Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Older Sibling Wilbur Soot, Parent Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Piglin Hybrid Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Storms, Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings, Younger Sibling TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), i love them, jus sbi bein soft, pyrokinetic wilbur, tommy is scared of storms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-14 19:21:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29547156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timefighter/pseuds/timefighter
Summary: sleepy bois during a storm what will they do
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s), Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson
Series: TILL DEATH — dream smp [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2128614
Comments: 6
Kudos: 78





	this universe

**Author's Note:**

> title inspired by this universe by umi

Philza’s family is split when it comes to thunderstorms.  
Wilbur, in his ever—adventuring spirit, absolutely adores thunderstorms. He’ll sit there for hours, just watching the rain pour down in thick sheets, eyes igniting with the lightning that carves across the sky, breath catching in excitement whenever a particularly large clap of thunder shakes the house.

Tommy despises thunderstorms. Despises them. He’ll argue that he’s a big man, that he isn’t afraid of anything, but they all notice when he flinches from booms of thunder, how he shrinks in on himself as flashes momentarily blind them. Loud noises and bright lights aren’t exactly Tommy’s… _thing_.

Techno is indifferent, but leans towards dislike of thunderstorms. The rain that comes with puts him in a gloomy mood, the thunder hurting his extra sensitive ears. Techno will hide with Tommy in the youngest’s room, simultaneously providing silent comfort and escape from the noise.

There’s a particularly nasty storm outside now, and Wilbur’s ecstatic. Phil’s middle son is on the porch, drenched. He’ll come back in with a sniffle and a shiver, Phil predicts, but for now, he’ll let him have his fun. It’s not often he gets to see the childlike wonder dance in Wil’s eyes anymore.

Wilbur stands on the slippery, wet wood of their porch, relishing the way the downpour soaks through his thin T—shirt and jeans. He can barely feel the fabric sticking to him as he tilts his head up towards the clouds. Rain drips off his skin rapidly, numbing his fingertips and ears. His hair is plastered to his forehead, quickly beginning to curl.

“Wil, come inside before you catch a cold.” His dad leans against the doorway with a one—sided simper on his face, wings nearly hidden in the shadows. Wilbur gives him his signature troublemaker smile, the one Phil has deemed the ‘dirty crime boy’ grin, and spins around.

“I love storms,” Wilbur sighs, even though Phil’s heard him say it a million times. The blond man only chuckles, guiding the lanky boy inside and handing him a towel.  
“Go shower. If you caught a cold I’m letting your brother Technoplane you.”

Wilbur fixes Phil with the most betrayed and offended look he’s seen in a while.  
“Traitor,” Wil breathes, throwing the damp towel at him and purposely dripping water onto the wood floors as he makes his way to the bathroom.  
“You’re insufferable!” Phil calls.  
“Love you, too!”

Tommy’s hiding under his covers with a flashlight and a book. He refuses to look outside, refuses to listen to the rain and the thunder. If he pretends it isn’t happening, it’s not real.  
“Tommy?” Techno calls from the other side of the door. “Can I come in?”  
“It’s unlocked,” Tommy answers, reluctantly poking his head out of the mess of blankets to greet his brother.  
“Whatcha readin’?” Technoblade asks, pulling up the blankets so he can throw them over both their heads.

This is why Tommy loves Techno. He doesn’t try to comfort Tommy with soothing words like Phil, and he isn’t obvious like Wilbur when the middle child takes his guitar out to play or when he wraps Tommy in a hug.

Techno’s love language is quality time. He’s awful with words, has always been too socially awkward to properly converse. He’s bad with physical touch, knowing he’s far too stiff to embrace comfortably. It’s not that he hates doing nice things for his family— it’s just that he’d rather not go out of his way when they’re all capable one way or another. Gifts were never his strong suit— Wilbur never knows what he wants, Tommy’s too picky, and Phil always tells him he doesn’t need anything.

But quality time is something Technoblade knows. Something he can do. He doesn’t need to talk to his brothers, doesn’t need to play a game or go somewhere. He just needs to be in their presence, just likes to sit there and be. It’s a comfortable silence.

Tommy slides the book towards him, one he found on Techno’s bookshelf. It’s one of his Greek mythology collections, with the page turned to Theseus.  
“I wanted to know why you always call me Theseus. Kind of a sad story,” Tommy comments.  
Technoblade hesitates, nodding. “Do you want me to stop?”

Tommy laughs slightly. “I know you won’t anyways. I don’t care.”  
“Tommy,” Techno says, nudging his brother’s shoulder slightly.  
“Techno.” The oldest son huffs a laugh at Tommy’s mocking voice.  
“I will, if you want me to. If it makes you uncomfortable, I won’t call you it anymore,” he continues seriously, but Tommy shakes his head.  
“I don’t mind.”

Wilbur slips a clean sweater over his head and pads out to the kitchen, joining Phil, who has four mugs of hot chocolate set out.  
“You wanna get your brothers?” Phil asks, ruffling Wil’s damp curls.  
“Yeah. You have a plan?”  
“Nope. Just thought we could sit out here, make a fire. Watch the storm.”  
“Tommy’s gonna be so excited,” Wilbur drawls sardonically, and Phil laughs, flicking his shoulder.

“Shoo.”  
“ _Shoo fly, don’t bother me,_ ” Wilbur sings out as he dodges his father’s jab at his ribs, laughing. He makes his way into Tommy’s room, where he sees the heap of blankets and assumes Technoblade and the youngest brother are hiding underneath them.  
“Dadza made hot chocolate,” Wilbur announces, and Techno’s head pokes out.  
“Peppermint?”  
“For yours, probably. C’mon,” the curly—haired boy replies, beckoning the two.

Tommy reluctantly slides out of his bed, sock—clad feet hitting the wooden floorboards heavily, and lets Wilbur pull him close to his side.  
Wilbur’s always been a walking heater, like an inferno pools in the sockets of his eyes and magma runs in his veins. His hands, callused from the hours he spends holed up in his room writing songs and plucking guitar strings, wrap around Tommy, resting comfortably on his shoulder.

Everything about Wilbur screams _warm_.  
His laugh, which is the sun on a summer day.  
His smile, which envelopes you like a blanket.  
His words of honey and cherry wine that override your senses and leave you with a feeling of nostalgia and wonder.

Tommy and Techno are the mirroring symptoms of Wilbur’s sunshine.  
Tommy, the raging wildfire, the burning torch that lights the way.  
Technoblade, the sword forged from the embers of hell, cutting and swift and unforgiving.

If his sons are ablaze, Philza is water. He is the lazy river carving through the fields, feeding the crops and creatures. He’s a tumbling creek and babbling brook, providing sweet relief on a sweltering day.  
He’s the ocean who’s gentle waves lap at the shore, giving ambient noise and soft comfort.  
He mellows, he subdues. He overflows, he floods.  
Phil is ice, freezing over and soothing burns, stabilizing those around him and those in need.

Phil hands Techno and Tommy mugs as Wilbur leads them out of the youngest’s room, their father tugging Tommy into a hug and squeezing Technoblade’s shoulder with a strong hand.  
“I say we make a fire and have Wil play the new song he’s been working on,” the winged man says to his three sons.

Wilbur scratches his neck, glancing at his feet. “It’s not done yet.”  
“That’s okay, big man,” Tommy tells him with a grin, steeling himself against the flashes of lightning. Wilbur smiles at his younger brother, ruffling his hair lightly.  
“I’m sure it’s great, Wil,” their father supplies, and claps his hands. “Techno, you wanna help me get some wood? Tommy, you can light the fire, if you’re careful,” he adds, seeing the dangerous glint in the blond’s eye.

Wilbur could easily hold a hand beneath the logs and let his fingers become flame, setting the wood alight, but he knows Tommy likes to light shit on fire, and during storms, he likes giving his little brother as much control as he can.

Techno and Phil set up the kindling while Wilbur grabs his acoustic guitar, Simone. He’d named her when Phil had gifted her to him for Wilbur’s sixteenth birthday, and took the utmost care of her to date. She’s his baby, he reminds his family nearly every day.

Technoblade helps Phil arrange the firewood and beckons his youngest brother over. Tommy grins, sliding to the floor next to Techno. The boar hybrid hands him the lighter and gestures for the kindling.  
“Hold it to the newspaper and blow on it, then it’ll grow.”

Tommy does as he says, his lips growing wider as the flame catches and spreads, crackling and eating away at the dry wood.  
“You’re a natural firestarter, mate,” Phil tells him, ruffling his fluffy hair. Tommy bats his hand away, but Techno can see his shoulders relax.

Wilbur joins them in the living room, settling on the sofa, Simone resting across his thighs.  
Maybe an instrument made of wood isn’t the best idea for a pyrokinetic to own, but music is one of Wilbur’s greatest passions, besides writing scripts. The keyboard he has stays hidden in his closet, nearly forgotten.

Tommy curls against Phil’s side, Technoblade choosing to sit himself on the floor, leaning against the couch.  
Wilbur pleads to the gods he doesn’t believe in for his trembling hands to still as he situates his fingers on the strings of his guitar.

Wilbur strums out the chords of _La Jolla_ and starts the lyrics.  
“ _You know it takes a lot to move me_ ,” he sings, his voice shaking at first. He lets the music take him, immersing himself in the gentle words and melodies.

He stops at ‘ _maybe one day I’ll live in La Jolla_.’ He hasn’t finished the song. Wilbur doesn’t know if he ever will, not necessarily. There’s something about songs. They’re always left incomplete, symphonies.

“What’s La Jolla?” Tommy asks.  
Wilbur shrugs. “Somewhere far away. I’ll be there, one day.”  
Tommy opens his mouth to protest, but closes it, thinking. “Will you bring us?” He asks.

Wilbur smiles, shifting closer to his family. Techno leans his head on the middle brother’s knee, and Wilbur can feel his tusk dig into his skin slightly as he grins.  
“Of course, Tommy. You’re stuck with me forever.”

 _Maybe storms aren’t so bad_ , Tommy thinks as he enjoys the comfort and warmth of his little family.


End file.
